Toy Chest
by Reizo Myu
Summary: Joker/Harley one-shot. Second person. What does the Joker erally think of Harley? Please read and review. I really enjoyed writing this.


A/N: the idea for this story came to me while I was with my friend at a pool. Sounds weird but, we were talking about this care bear doll she'd had forever and I remembered Harley often being compared to a Barbie. I do not own Batman. I'm going to try for second person here so, give it a chance.

**Toy Chest**

You walk in, dead tired from the night's activities, sore from your fighting with Bats.

Harley is right behind you, following with her puppy-dog eyes and bouncing liliripes. She is completely riled up. It's annoying and the palm currently resting in your jacket pocket itches to slap her.

You don't, however, as she catches the look on your face and frowns, beginning to cart you towards the door without bidding so much as her usual good night to the boys.

The hotel you're staying in is rather fancy and it's preferable to most of the places you stay. Harley pushes you towards the bed and immediately strips you of your jacket then gloves and unfastens the first two buttons on your shirt. She moves fast, stooping down to pull off your shoes then lift your legs on to the bed.

You lie there, staring at the ceiling as she goes into the bathroom, pulling her own cowl and mask away to let her long blonde hair loose.

There on the bed, you shut your eyes, awaiting her inevitable return, and think.

Harley had always been loyal, undeterred by any harsh public comments and unsympathetic towards anyone you pointed out to her. When you told her what to do she did it gleefully and with a smile. She alone has never betrayed you.

You, on the other hand, have committed many 'offenses' to Harley's nature.

It reminds you of little boys and their toy chests.

The action figure is what all the other boys, be they Harveys or Edwards, play with. And, of course, to each boy the action figure was the same but special.

Edward had left his constant questions ringing in its ears many lonely afternoons and Harvey would always be asking the action figure what he should have for lunch: Peanut butter sandwich or leftover hamburger. You, of course, always mess with the action figure. You like it best when the little toy will fight back, remain unscathed through all your years of abuse and battering, an ally and an enemy all the same.

You realize some of the girls enjoy playing with the figurines too. Whether they be Pamela's or Selina's. The girl who hates the boys and loves taunting them with their favourite toy choosing to deal with her as well or the little princess, secretly caring for the carefully construed action figure, hoping it may one day come to be with her.

But you know you harbor a secret. At the bottom of your toy chest, behind all cap guns and the Tonka trucks, underneath the action figure and a couple jars of Halloween paint, you're hiding a doll.

A fairly standard Barbie, blonde hair and blue eyes. The ever present smile and perfect features. You know the others would mock you if they ever found out so you keep her locked up in there, safe to only show some care to when you're alone.

A scrape here and there on her delicate surface, a lock of hair missing and bizarre new clothes you've placed her in. You would never say it aloud but, deep down, you sometimes think the Barbie is more fun than the action figure.

Because even if you think yours is special, you know that all the Edward's and Pam's of the world have their version too. You know that the action figure isn't your own, it's for everyone who has one.

But this doll...

It's violently treated limbs have been reattached by your careful hands, it's clothes gently placed on by fingers customizing her appearance. Making her to your liking. Even the missing lock of hair that you can never reattach is close to your heart, still in the chest near where the doll resides. You remember how she got every scrape and it warms your heart a little, having this secret. Knowing the doll smiles for you and only you. This doll is yours and, even if you lose her, get angry and throw her away for a while, you'll always go digging through the trash to find her again.

Everyone has their own action figure, the hero or the scapegoat. Everyone has one. Yet this doll is purely yours. Everything about her is you and you occasionally push a fond finger through her hair or take her to bed with you, hiding her in your arms so that no one else can have her.

A little boy with his little toys.

But as you are called out for another day, into the chest she'll go, always there but, never as special when you're with the action figure or playing with the others.

After all, a boy isn't supposed to play with dolls. Not natural, not right.

You're pulled away from your thoughts as Harley comes back into the room, a small white tank top and black shorts covering her. Her hair is still loose and you can see scars on her arms and legs, all made by you.

She gracefully moves over to where you lie, deadweight on the mattress, and places a wet wash cloth against your face, rubbing away the dry and crusted paint, a little blood from where you've been cut. So careful not to hurt you. Never like Batman who's rough exterior doesn't care how often he batters you around.

At the end of the day, Harley is the one to take care of you and she never asks why you brush her away in public or why you seem to prefer the Batman over her.

She carefully squeezes the clothe, letting luke-warm water spread gently over your skin before wiping it up again. She smiles as you reach up and gently run your fingers through a single lock of her hair, spreading it into different little strands.

Then, as she gets up to go, presumably to put the clothe back, you catch her arm, albeit roughly, but not angrily. You pull her back down, hearing the wet fabric hit the floor and Harley's perfectly tuned giggle.

You fold her into your arms and watch her smile, seeing her breathing even and finally shutting your own eyes. Before elapsing into sleep, however, you can't help but to think about one thing.

Oh yes, the action figure is wonderful fun but, nothing can ever truly be yours like the doll.


End file.
